Road Trip
by Myosotis13
Summary: What starts out as a normal day in the clinic spices up as one of the patients becomes aggressive for no apparent reason.As his team struggles to find a diagnosis,House hopes to skip clinic duty by driving six hours to investigate the man’s vacation house
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I do not own "House" or any of its characters. No profit is being made off this story, no infringement of any rights intended!**

**Summary: What starts out as a normal day in the clinic spices up as one of the patients becomes aggressive for no apparent reason. As his team struggles to find a fitting diagnosis, House hopes to skip clinic duty by driving six hours to investigate the man's vacation house. But his master plan is foiled when an annoyed Cuddy decides to join the trip to keep him honest.**

**A/N: While this story does feature a lot of House/Cuddy scenes, it will not stray too far from their (convoluted and puzzling) cannon relationship! I hope you'll still enjoy it, nonetheless ;)  
**

**Road Trip**

**Chapter I: Tight Fix**

She rolled over on her right side with a distinctly ominous feeling. Her feet tangled slightly in the warm, wrinkled sheets. She kicked out lazily, wondering why the sensation of a stranger weight on the other half of the bed brought such an odd mixture of unease and excitement to her. It was certainly not what she usually experienced the morning after. In fact, she recalled apprehensively, as she brushed the tousled hair out of her eyes to clear her field of vision, there _had_ been one other time—

"Ohh, I _missed_ this scalding glare first thing in the morning."

Doctor Lisa Cuddy groaned inwardly as her colleague and subordinate, Dr. Gregory House, flashed his trademark smug grin from the other half of the bed.

* * *

_Two days before…_

"Where. Is Doctor. House."

The nurse shot her the need-you-ask look, accompanied by a small shrug. Cuddy could have sworn the entire hospital staff had been trained to respond that way to that particular question.

"When did his clinic shift start?"

"Two hours ago," the nurse at the reception desk replied between stapling two records and issuing a form to a rather vocal elderly lady. "Called him earlier, said he'd be right in...and could you please take his first patient in case the traffic is heavy."

"_Traffic_? What traffic, he was in his _office_ when I last checked!" She took a calming breath; snapping at the beleaguered nurse was not only rude, but utterly useless as well. "Are there any patients waiting for him?"

Wordlessly, the woman handed her a case file and nodded to a man standing next to an exam room door. Tapping an impatient foot, he frequently glared towards the nurses' station. Despite the black suit he wore, there was a rather haggard, unkempt look about him. Cuddy tried to muster an ounce of enthusiasm and put on a pleasant expression.

"Call Dr. House again, please," she instructed the nurse in a hurried whisper, "tell him to be down in exam room two in five minutes, or else...or else…just add whatever you can think of after that. The nastier, the better." She straightened her shoulders and headed for the scruffy man in the suit. "Good afternoon, I'm Doctor Lisa Cuddy. Could you step to exam room two, please…"

"Sure took your sweet time," he muttered. "Been waitin' a couple o'hours for that other fella, whasisname…"

House was _so_ getting double clinic duty that day.

* * *

"Can you take your shirt off, please?" (The doctor in her silenced the woman who was screaming that he should keep it on, no, really, just leave those buttons alone!) "I need to see if the rash is present anywhere else."

Surely enough, it was. The red irritation that went up both the man's arms was visible on his chest and upper torso, maybe a shade lighter, but there nonetheless. She examined it with a frown. It drew strange patterns on his skin, and Cuddy had a hard time identifying which class it could belong to.

"Well?" he demanded. "What is it?"

"Could be an allergy," she offered, "could be some new material or substance you've come into contact with recently. Can you remember anything?"

"No."

"Did you try any new foods? Foreign cuisine, sea food, poorly cooked meat?"

"No."

"Bought any new clothes?" she tried.

"No."

"Alright," she gave up. It was never going to be that easy, anyway. "Are you experiencing any other symptoms? Nausea, hot flushes, sweats, headache, muscle pain?"

"What is it?" he demanded again. "Should my head hurt? I thought it did yesterday. Muscles always hurt. Knew it wasn't the gym, told my wife, she keeps nagging I quit, all you women are the same, nag and nag—"

His arms flailed wildly as he made his point. A real charmer, Cuddy judged while she checked his back for signs of the eruption. She found it, but it looked vastly different. Only a slight red flush marked his shoulders and lower back, while his front was covered by an intense crimson spot, with minuscule pustules and angry red lines drawn across it, almost like…

"Mr. Roberts, did you _scratch_ your arms and chest?" she asked in alarm, praying the answer would be negative.

"Yeah, so?" He pushed his chest forward in defiance. "'What if I did? Didn't know what to make of it. Maybe it'd go away. It keeps stinging, though. What is it?" he asked for the third time, but Cuddy was too busy gaping at the revelation to keep count. He had scratched so hard that he had virtually torn off the skin, leaving the angry red welts she had found so disconcerting. Was that a symptom, too? She suddenly saw his rudeness in a new light. Obsessive behaviour, lack of inhibition, aberrant social conduct could be the indications of an imminent neurotic fit, maybe a psychotic episode—

"Whatcha lookin' at, lady? You doctors never give a straight answer. Messing with people's heads. Just tell me what I got!"

She retreated a step from the examination table, taking in his rapid breaths, the droplets of sweat at the base of his hair, his dilated pupils. If he was going to have a psychotic episode, a confined exam room filled with medical supplies was _not_ the place to do it.

"I,uhm, need to run a few more tests, if you'll just wait here for—"

"Wait! I waited for two damn hours out there!" He leapt off the table, arms flailing as he protested furiously. "You don't keep me waiting no more, you hear? That's why you got this billion-dollar hospital! Just gimme a shot to make me better!" In his rightful indignation, he knocked over the small metal table in the room. "I ain't paying for that!"

Figures that House's first patient would be a madman. Possibly an addict in withdrawal, in which case she was in serious trouble unless she got out of there. Instinctively, Cuddy made for the door, only to find him in front of her in an instant. His hands got a rough grip of his shoulders.

"Mr. Roberts, let go of me!" she commanded as firmly as she could. "Calm yourself and let go!"

But his grip only became tighter as he pushed her back into the wall.

"Why won't you tell me what I got? Is it bad?" Sweat trickled down his temple as he started shaking her. "I have to know and you're going to tell me! Tell me now!"

"Calm down!" she half-shouted, not quite knowing if she was addressing the neurotic patient or herself. "I'm here to help you, just let go and we'll see what's wrong with—"

"No! I'm tired of waiting!" He had relaxed his grip for an instant, but clutched her arms again as she once more tried to get away. "I've a right to know what's wrong! I can get it out of you if you won't say it! Tell me!"

* * *

**A/N: I would love to get your thoughts on this! It is my first "House" story ever, so I'm not at all sure about how plausible, in-character etc. it comes across as. Your comments and criticisms are appreciated! Thank you for reading:) **

**Myosotis**


	2. Chapter 2

**Road Trip **

**Chapter II: The Art of Timing  
**

If anything could get Dr. Gregory House away from his office and his gameboy and down to the clinic and its halfwit patients, it was Dr. Cameron in one of her analytic/introspective moods. The moment the words "why", "you" and "me" had come out of her mouth in the same sentence, he had suddenly remembered there was clinic work to do. You know, so many whiny cubicle workers with the sniffles, so little time.

She was probably PMSing and having second thoughts over her on-again, off-again, friends-with-interests arrangement with Chase. Where _he_ fit into all that, House did not see; apparently, he was the default cause for all of Cameron's convoluted conscience processes. It did not bother him. In fact, he probably would have minded if she _didn't_ regularly reaffirm her fixation that he had some sort of deep buried feelings for her. With a little luck, Chase would buy her a bunch of roses or flick his hair back with a naughty wink or something, and she'd get over it for the next month or so.

The only problem was, he had been forced to attend his clinic duties to dodge her that day.

"Dr. House," the nurse at the reception desk greeted him coolly, then her voice took on an edge of sarcasm. "Nice to see you down here. We're very crowded today and a bit short on staff."

"_What_? There were _sick people_ waiting for a doctor?" he exclaimed in feigned shock. "Why didn't you just say so earlier?!"

He surveyed the packed waiting room with a distinct lack of enthusiasm, idly wondering if his trademark introduction would work on that lot. But he was down to his last five or so Vicodins, and popping them just for the sake of a demonstration was not really worth it. The doe-eyed woman in the corner, with her shapely curves, on the other hand, might be worth some work in the clinic.

"I'll take that one," he told the nurse. "Where's her file?"

"Sorry," she replied with an obvious lack of regret, "your patient is in exam room two. Dr. Cuddy said you should go there as soon as you come in. She's got his file."

"Well, since Cuddy got to him first, we might as well_ be effective and not assign two doctors to one patient!_" He spoke the last part loudly, causing everyone in the waiting room to turn glances of agreement in his direction. "Jeez, can you believe this, people?" he addressed the crowd with mock indignation.

With a dozen patients nodding crossly, the nurse dared not contradict him. Damn man always got his way. She could only look on in annoyance as House hobbled towards the doe-eyed woman and introduced himself in the usual fashion.

"Hello, I'm Dr. House, I'll be seeing you today in exam room o—"

He stopped in mid-speech to the sound of a loud crash in one of the nearby exam rooms. With a half-curious, half-troubled frown, he had taken the few steps that separated him from the room before he even realized he was moving. Muffled shouts came from inside. He beckoned a security guard and hurried to open the door only to be faced with a furious grubby man, naked from the waist up and shouting for all his worth into a dazed-looking Cuddy's face.

That was definitely not his day, House thought, swallowing hard and instinctively tightening the grip on his cane. The shouting man acknowledged his presence with a menacing groan.

Maybe he should have given Cameron's rant a chance, after all.

* * *

"_Tell me what's wrong with me_!!" 

Cuddy felt her heart pounding against her chest in sound rhythm with his rough shaking. Her upper arms felt numb from the man's tight grasp. If his violent episode did not pass, he could end up seriously hurting her, and possibly himself. (In all honesty, the former was considerably more alarming.) She opened her mouth to shout for help when she registered a loud _thud!_ and the pressure on her shoulders abruptly vanished.

She nearly slid to the floor from the change in momentum, managing to regain balance only at the last moment. Her first frantic look around the ravaged exam room was not enough to take in the sudden twist of events. But upon a second, calmer survey, she discovered her patient lying on the floor near the knocked over table, clutching his head in obvious disorientation.

"So, police custody or mental ward? What will it be?"

She did not know whether to thank the irritatingly composed House, or kill him.

* * *

While the nurses, aided by a couple of security men, dealt with the seemingly calmer patient, Cuddy had time to rein in her panic. Absently rubbing her sore shoulders, she took in the devastation in the exam room. Overturned tables, broken glass, agitated nurses and a confused patient moaning and holding his head, a shiny bump already visible on his left side. Cuddy shook her head, eyes still wide with shock, then disbelief started to settle in. 

"House, did you just _whack_ my patient over the head with a cane??"

"Noooo," he gasped in mock indignation. Then he offered a matter-of-fact shrug. "Technically, he was _my_ patient. You were just filling in while I got here. So don't argue my methods of treatment."

"Does the phrase 'do no harm' mean anything to you?"

"Hey, _he_ was going to do harm to _me_!"

Cuddy's eyes moved instinctively to the small welts on her upper arms, where the man had clutched so fiercely. When she looked at House again, it was with a small smile.

"Thank you."

"Anytime." He smirked. "You've no idea how long I've been dreaming to do that."

She gave him a warning look beneath her eyebrows.

"I hope by 'that' you mean mastering the art of great timing, not clobbering a patient with your cane."

House mirrored her crooked gaze.

"You should know me better than that!" he replied indignantly.

Then he looked towards the cane with a mischievous grin of satisfaction.

* * *

**A/N: Not exactly a knight-in-shiny-armor type of rescue, but hey, this _is _House after all : no white horse, but a flaming cane and secondhand motorcycle **_//grins//_**. I hope you enjoyed this chapter, let me know what you think of it! **

**Myosotis  
**

* * *


	3. Chapter 3

**Road Trip**

**Chapter III: Differential**_  
_

_Still two days before..._

"So, crazy clinic dude's got a rash. Here's a question you should be able to answer in your first year at med school: what caused it?"

"It could be anything!" Cameron protested. "Allergy, atopic dermatitis, reaction to an irritant, infection—"

"Yadda, yadda, yadda," House unhesitantly dismissed her list, keeping his back turned as he scribbled on the whiteboard. "Class, Dr. Cameron obviously studied the assigned readings. Now to crank it up a notch." He stepped away from the board, revealing the symptoms written on it. "He almost ripped his skin off scratching obsessively. So what causes a rash, neurosis _and_ makes our guy go bonkers in the clinic?"

"Drugs!" Chase instantly provided. "Substance abuse explains all the symptoms: rash is the reaction to a toxin, withdrawal causes the neurosis and antisocial behaviour, leading up to the violent episode in the clinic."

"Did you really whack him over the head with a cane?"

Giving Cameron a dissatisfied glare, House pointedly ignored the question.

"Yes, drugs would explain everything," he addressed Chase, "but would I _really_ be wasting my time on a junkie when I've got so many better things to do?" He flipped the cap on his Vicodin bottle and took a couple of pills.

Foreman rolled his eyes at the obviously sarcastic gesture.

"Tox screen's clean?" he ventured.

"As a whistle. Where _did_ that expression come from, anyway?" House wondered with a fascinated frown, as he dropped a file on the table in front of them. "Medical records show no history of substance abuse."

"That doesn't mean he's not on drugs," Chase argued, "just that no one's caught on this far."

"He says he's never even smoked pot."

"Everybody lies!" Chase quoted loudly.

"Tox screens don't lie. Especially not twice. He's clean," House declared calmly.

"The drugs could've just been out of his system long enough not to appear on the test, which would account for the withdrawal—'

"He doesn't _look_ like a drug addict."

"Oh, so everybody lies but appearances are always accurate."

House rolled his eyes. He could have predicted the last minute of conversation from beginning to end, and Chase had stuck faithfully to the script.

"He's clean," he repeated with a subtle tone of finality, "other ideas."

"Could be lead poisoning," Cameron offered, earning herself a look of mocking disbelief.

"Don't you young ones read people's _files_ these days? He lives in a big apartment downtown, works on the top floor of an office building! What, you think he munches the paint of the window sill in his forty minute lunch breaks?"

"He could've gotten it a number of places," she argued. "Infested water—"

"Wife's fine, no other cases reported at his work place."

"—cosmetics…"

He pretended to frown in intense focus for a second.

"Yes, the medical record doesn't specify what shade of _mascara_ he puts on in the mornings. Come on, you can do better than that. It's not lead poisoning, BLL came back fine."

"Could be an infection," she re-evaluated.

"There's no fever," Chase countered, reaching for the closest pages of the medical file on the table.

"File says he's had occasional asthma attacks," Foreman commented. "It could be related."

"It's not asthma, that's for sure. His lungs are fine. Something else is causing the rash…and the enlarged liver?!" Chase raised his eyes from the page he was reading and frowned in annoyance at House. "When were you going to mention that?"

"You can read, can't you?" the older man countered. "You should take lessons from Cameron on how to prepare for class."

"You just put us on the case!" the blond protested. "We haven't even _seen_ the patient yet!"

"Hmm, if only we had a way to tell all the patient's symptoms without seeing him," House mocked, using the end of his cane to push the rest of the patient's medical files towards Chase. "Get yourselves up to date on it over lunch." He pressed the cane on Chase shoulder as the blond made a move to stand up. "My lunch, not yours."

* * *

"Rash, obsessive and aggressive behaviour, liver damage, headache, blurred vision." Chase closed the file and stared at the whiteboard. "I still say it's drugs." 

"The screen was negative!" Foreman replied exasperatedly.

"But it perfectly fits all the symptoms!"

"So does…pregnancy!"

"Not the liver damage," Cameron idly pointed out, "and not the chronology."

"Yeah, _that's_ why we know he's not pregnant," Foreman commented dryly. "Okay, people, House will be back from lunch and riding us again in a few minutes. We need to come up with something that hasn't been shot down by tests _and_ is anatomically pertinent."

"Lupus fits the symptoms," Cameron suggested, but Foreman shook his head.

"Lupus fits any symptoms. He's not going to go with it, we need something better." He flicked through the pages on the table. "Rheumatoid arthritis."

"Doesn't account for the violent episode in the clinic."

"Maybe the two are unrelated," Chase tried. "Maybe he came in contact with poison ivy and he's got a behavioural disorder!"

"What about the recent headache and chorioetinitis?"

"Come on," Chase gave Cameron a long look, "his head obviously hurts since House smacked him down in the clinic! Any belt to the head with a heavy wooden cane will give a guy that, and the blurred vision!"

"Not just _any_ belt, only one skilfully executed." House had walked in his office soon enough to hear Chase's last phrase, but seemed unconcerned. "I trust you have someone else to blame for the rest of his symptoms, though. All those poor people who spent years writing medical compendiums will be disappointed if we trace _all_ the symptoms back to me."

* * *

_One day before… _

"I want to know where he eats, where he walks his dog, where he has extramarital sex—"

It had been more than a day since the man had gone berserk in the clinic, and they were still unable to find a fitting diagnosis. House had even let the three ducklings go out and play, visiting the patient and all that useless routine, to no avail. Irritated and intrigued as usual by the mystery, he fixed the neurologist with an expectative glare.

"Office cafeteria, no dog, _no _extramarital affair." Foreman gave him a dry look. "Shocker."

"Then find out where he's travelled in the past six months."

"He hasn't left the country," Cameron flipped a page on her pad. "Vacationed last month in Florida…"

"Doubt snorkelling caused his liver to swell to the size of Texas," House muttered, obviously dissatisfied by the lack of any plausible cause for their patient's symptoms. "Where else?"

"Nowhere! Just usual day trips to clients' homes, a few conferences but none of them even out-of-state! He has a vacation house about six hours west from here but he hasn't been there at all this year."

"Was his _wife_ in the room when he said that?" He could virtually _hear_ three pairs of eyes rolling. "Well?"

"Yes," Cameron admitted, "but do you really think—"

Hobbling to the door, he did not wait for her to finish.

"Six hours there, means twelve hours a round trip, fifteen with a thorough search of the place and a stop for drive-through junk food. I'd estimate we can keep him on the current treatment for about another _day _before either his liver or his pancreas give out."

"But nothing we're doing is making him better!" Cameron argued.

"No, but it keeps his liver from popping, so we'll keep it up until you've checked his little love nest or we've come up with a better idea."

"You're sending me on a twelve-hour drive and you don't even know if he's actually _been_ at the house?"

Turning in the doorway, he arched an eyebrow at her.

"Please. _Of course_ he's been there. But I'll go ask him if it makes you feel any better."

"Why do _I_ have to go?" Cameron protested, almost shocked at how whiny the objection sounded to her own ears.

"Why, got a Tuesday night date?" House half-sighed at her uncertain expression. Love-life quips were never too fun with Cameron, she looked too much into the hidden meaning that wasn't there. "Fine. Chase can go. He's got the better sense of observation, anyway. You can stay here and rerun the hep C test and the tox screen." He looked towards the Australian. "Go start the engine. I'll get you the address and the keys."

* * *

**A/N: Thanks, everyone, for staying with the story! Getting your feedback helps me improve AND makes my day brighter! So any and all comments, questions, suggestions etc. are welcome.**

**Until next time! **

**Myosotis  
**

* * *


	4. Chapter 4

**Road Trip**

**Chapter IV: A Rocky Set Off**

"House. It's Tuesday morning, you're on clinic duty. Do I have to hunt you down each time to make you go?"

Five feet away from the hospital exit, Gregory House gave an irritated sigh.

"No, but you still do, which means you must desperately _want_ to."

Cuddy was, in her turn, unimpressed. Understaffed and overcrowded, she had no time for a childish debate in the hospital lobby.

"Clinic. Now."

"I've got a case."

"I know. And you've nothing new to go on until Chase checks out the man's vacation house. You can take exam room two."

House turned towards her to execute a perfect impression of rightful indignation.

"That poor man's liver is failing for no apparent reason and you want me to diagnose mild cases of the sniffles?" he gasped.

Cuddy arched an eyebrow, nodding towards the exit doors right behind them.

"So your patient is dying and you're going home at eleven a.m?"

"Hey, I've nothing new to go on until Chase checks out the man's vacation house!"

Rolling her eyes at his lame attempt to turn the tables, she impatiently waved a file in front of him.

"You're _weeks_ behind in clinic duty. There's a patient waiting for you in exam room two."

"I have to focus on my case!" House protested, raising both arms in a defensive gesture.

"Fine. Then focus in your office."

"I can't think properly in there!"

She fixed him with a stony glare.

"House. You're not going home. Think elsewhere."

* * *

Fifteen minutes later, Cuddy rushed into the parking lot just in time to see him open the driver's door to Wilson's car. She was momentarily stunned as two sudden urges struggled within her: she could have killed him, but for the urge to laugh out loud at the pure ridicule of their situation. 

"House!!" she shouted, hurrying to get to the car before he could drive off. "That's not what I meant when I said to think elsewhere!"

He quickly deposited his cane on the right seat.

"I'm working on my case," he replied smartly. "Going to investigate the patient's environment. Fifteen hours work—hey, I should get paid for the extra time! Not to mention the gasoline. Oh, wait," he screwed up his face, pretending to focus, "this is Wilson's car. Forget the gasoline, then."

He climbed into the driver's seat, nonchalantly ignoring the waves of annoyance radiating from Cuddy. He even smirked a little when she was forced to bend a little to see him through the left car window.

"Are you trying to get out of that guest lecture you've got coming up tomorrow?"

"Nooo!" he denied vehemently. "Tomorrow's, what, a day from now? I'll be back in time," he assured her in his best convincing tone.

His best convincing tone, however, did nothing for Cuddy. She arched an irritated eyebrow.

"Last time you went to investigate a patient's home you didn't come back to work for three _days_."

"It was a big home."

"You called your team with the diagnostic after two hours!!"

"It was a long drive back," he deadpanned.

Cuddy marched to the front of the car, crossing her arms and giving him a menacing glower.

"Get out of the car."

"Make me," he challenged, thoroughly amused. His victorious grin, however, faded as the Dean of Medicine stomped to the passenger door and furiously climbed into the right seat. "Whoa, _down _girl—"

"Fine," she interrupted in a voice of forced calm, and House could hear the undertone of satisfaction at having foiled him. "I'm going with you. And when we get back, _in fifteen hours_, you're taking clinic duty!"

"After that much time on the road?" he protested. "What, do you want me _kill_ someone? I need my beauty sleep!"

"I'll take the drive back. You can sleep in the car."

"B—"

"House," Cuddy cut him off again in a definitive tone, "the only way you're driving to that man's house is with me. Otherwise, Mrs. Lopez-Karadekis is still waiting in exam room two," she finished sweetly.

The engine started almost instantly.

* * *

**A/N: You know I love your feedback. My plot bunnies need to be fed! (although, this one is doing quite well, to be honest. He ferociously consumes most of my writing time, snapping viciously whenever another bunny hops along for a quick nibble.) **

**Myosotis  
**


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: To think this story has been almost completed for ages, waiting patiently to be rediscovered among the impossible-to-navigate chaos that is my documents folder. Well, it has been rediscovered, dusted off and it is now ready to go again! **

**Road Trip**

**Chapter V: On the Road**

"I can take the wheel for a while, if you want."

"What, you think I'd let you drive me to your naughty secret hideout and have your way with me, woman?"

Cuddy rolled her eyes. So much for being nice. They had been driving for little over two hours, and they still had about twice as much time left. Then the trip back. She tried hard not to think of that. Leaning her head against the side window, she mentally ticked off all the meetings she would miss because of the unplanned trip House had practically forced on her. She let out a long, deep sigh.

House snuck a look towards her cleavage.

Cuddy send him a warning glare.

House smirked.

They drove in silence for another couple of minutes before passing a motel sign on the road. House's eyebrows shot upwards in excitement, and he opened his mouth—

"_Don't_ even think about it."

"Spoilsport."

* * *

_Some indefinite amount of time later..._

"Figures Wilson would give me a car with a half-empty gas tank."

"Funny. I would've pinned you for a half-full kind of guy," Cuddy commented sarcastically as she watched him walk behind the car to the fuel pump.

They still had more than half the distance to cover to the man's vacation house, and she was thirsty, stiff and annoyed. Opening the car door to stretch her legs a little, she waited for his reply. To her surprise, it never came; perhaps he had finally realized a six-hour drive was too long to keep up a childish battle of wills.

Just as the thought crossed her mind, his eyes moved from the gas tank to her, with a half-dry, half-amused gaze that clearly said: you _did_ meet me before, right?

"Bet he hoped the car would stop in the middle of nowhere and I'd get eaten by coyotes," he muttered half to her, half to himself.

"I was in on it, I'm really only here to drive the car back," Cuddy deadpanned, and he smirked just a little bit.

"I _knew_ it," he returned with a tone of exaggerated satisfaction that contradicted his otherwise lazy posture.

That was the word for it, Cuddy thought. It was a lazy kind of banter, nothing like their usual acid exchanges. As she leaned sideways against the seat, her outstretched feet resting on the concrete, she watched idly as House finished pumping the gas and placed the lid back on the tank.

"I'll go pay," he said, and added as an afterthought: "Oh, this is the only station for the next couple of hundred miles or so. I'm sure they have lovely restroom facilities."

"Thanks," she grimaced, casting a doubtful look towards the shabby station. A skinny dog was just whiffing tentatively at one of the corners of the rundown store. "I'm good."

"_O_kay," he nodded without further comment. "Back in a jiffy," he added, turning his back and hobbling towards the store to pay. Cuddy watched him go, in a wary sort of surprise at his uncharacteristic, well, normalcy! She checked the skies for further signs of the apocalypse—House behaving like an adult was probably the first.

She shook her head with an inward grin, then immediately felt contrite. She always expected the worst of him, so he happily obliged. What if people's expectations were partly what made him act like such a jerk? She grimaced doubtfully—this _was_ Gregory House, after all. But what if…

"We've got a problem." His voice interrupted her conflicting musings, and she looked up in curiosity to see him approach. "Wile E. back there doesn't take credit cards."

He waved his card at her and Cuddy groaned. She had left so unexpectedly that her purse was still back in her office at PPTH. Then a mischievous smile lit her face and she reached into her coat pocket, extracting a hundred-dollar bill. House watched her with a smirk.

"Bribe?"

"Bet."

"Wilson?"

She shrugged and his smirk only grew wider. He took the bill she held out with an appreciative nod. As she watched him walk back towards the store, Cuddy pondered the situation and concluded that things could definitely be going much worse. In fact, if she was going to be honest about it, aside from the heat and occasional snide comment, the impromptu trip had actually gone surprisingly well. Well, at least from the point of view of House not being an unreasonable, immature jerk. They had still run out of gas, been forced to stop at a dusty station in the middle of nowhere, where the cashier didn't even take—

--Cuddy's expression suddenly changed when her eyes fell on a small sign on the store window: 'We take Visa, Amex and Master Card.' As if on cue, the door to the small store opened and House came out waving a plastic bag, filled to the top and looking pretty heavy. He met her eyes, mimicked a completely insincere 'oops' and grinned maliciously. Cuddy rolled her eyes.

He was still House, after all.

* * *

"Seriously, House, motor oil? Pink toilet paper?? _Anti-freezing windshield solution_?" 

She continued to rummage through the bag as he drove on, a satisfied smirk still on his face.

"Hey, safety comes first! Do you know how many accidents happen because of icy windshields?"

"House, it's _July_!"

"It's never too early to be prepared," he replied in a serious, grave voice he only ever used to mock. Cuddy ignored him and continued to look through the bag, letting out an exasperated huff when she discovered a bunch of coloured lighters in the shape of naked women.

"You don't even smoke!"

"They had a special discount."

Next in his bag of goodies she discovered two packs of condoms.

"Two?" she scoffed, eager for a little payback. "You do know they expire after four years or so."

"With you, Cuddles? They won't last four _hours_…you're insatiable, woman!"

"_You_ won't last four hours—wouldn't," she corrected quickly, narrowing her eyes as he grinned at her slip of tongue. "You're delusional. And you owe me a hundred dollars," she informed him.

She was expecting an innuendo, and that was exactly why he did not offer it.

"Take it out of the expense account," he said instead.

"I'll take it out of your salary this month."

"Aww," he pretended to pout, "but then how will I get to use all those condoms?"

"Charm'em," she retorted.

* * *

**A/N: Many thanks to everyone who is still following this story:) I am quite confident that the update times will be considerably improved . As always, I love hearing from you! **

**Until next time,**

**Myosotis**


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: Thanks so much to everyone who read and sent me their comments on the last chapter:)**

**I had put this story on hold since it originally started as a coping mechanism for strike-caused "House" withdrawal. Needless to say, now that season 4 is done and we're looking to **_**months**_** without the weekly fix, said withdrawal is coming back. And good Lord, those producers are cruel. "Wilson's Heart" and then **_**nothing**_** for t**_**hree months**_**?? Vicious! Pretty sure there's a law punishing this kind of inhumanity.**

**Alright rant done, on to the new chapter. Enjoy, send me your thoughts:)! **

**Chapter VI: Piecing the Puzzle**

The iron gates opened at the command from the portable remote, and they saw a long, narrow alley that slithered to the single-story house. Soft grass carpeted the spacious yard. Even in the warm afternoon the air held the fresh, dewy smell of the hill countryside.

"No wonder he doesn't bring his wife here."

House steered the car towards the front of the building, checking the yard as he drove through. Nothing caught his attention, no cause was immediately evident for his patient's symptoms. He pulled up to the door and rummaged his pockets for the keys that the man had willingly surrendered after House had promised, scout's honour and all, that he would not mention the love nest issue to the wife. As if.

"You sure you want to go in?" he asked as he unlocked.

"Thinking of making a daring escape out the back?" Cuddy grinned, then pushed open the front door. "Two pairs of eyes are better than one."

"Yeah, right," he scoffed, "like you've any chance of finding anything before I do." At the narrow-eyed look she cast him, he responded with an innocent shrug, then grinned. "Wanna make it a race?"

Cuddy rolled her eyes.

"Take the living room and downstairs bathroom," she suggested after a scan of the ground floor, "and I'll take the kitchen."

"Oh, fine, but I get the bedroom and all the _other_ fun rooms!" he warned with a mock pout, then headed for the living area.

The whole place had the slightly stale air of any holiday residence left uninhabited for most of the year. As House's eyes slowly swept the room, puzzle pieces floated randomly in his mind. His gaze lingered over the drink bar for a moment, where most bottles had been handled. But the man's tox screen had come out negative; alcohol or drug withdrawal did not account for the violent episode in the clinic. His fever had spiked only afterwards. House turned away from the bar, tracing a finger along the dusty wooden table as he paced the room. Medical history reported occasional asthma episodes, but HDM allergy should have attacked the lungs first, and the man's lungs were in better shape than his liver. Alcohol and drug abuse explained the liver and the psychosis, even the skin rash and impaired vision. But it did not show up on their tests!

"Even tests lie," he muttered to himself, turning back to the bar and derisively sniffing a bottle of martini. That train of thought led nowhere, as he had already debated it over and over with his team. He wondered how Cuddy was doing. If she found something before him, he would have to flee to Siberia.

The puzzle pieces floated back into focus. With a final sweep of the living area, House moved to the bathroom. Fever, infection, most likely a type of bacteria the man had picked up somewhere, a parasite that had gladly attached itself to the unknowing host and was causing the rash and the enlarged liver. And bathrooms were usually where bacteria loved to cuddle.

At first sight, it seemed clean, if a bit small and too crammed for the spacey house. His eyes scanned the tags on bottles and containers. Laundry detergent, toilet and bathtub cleaner, liquid soap, all nearly-full and dusty for lack of use. Obviously the man had more important things to do there than housework. Just the kind a parasite would stick to. But which of those little buggers was it? Plant, fungus, protozoan? Or was it an infection at all—the fever had only come after one day in the hospital. Had their treatment caused it, like Cameron suggested? Another path he had gone up and down with his team, another dead end.

Cuddy had better not have found anything, either. Tickets to Siberia were scarce these days.

"Eeeee—tee—tee"

He frowned. That was certainly her voice, but it did not sound right. Driven by curiosity, he poked his head out of the bathroom. The better to hear you, my dear.

"Here, kitty, kitty."

Well, _that_ made a little more sense.

"Meee-_yow_," House replied with an impish grin. Unsurprisingly, she regaled him with the usual arched eyebrow.

"Down, Sylvester," she mocked before becoming serious again. "Found a bag of cat chow in the cupboard, and the kitchen door has a flap-trap. I want to see if—"

The new bits of information took their place in the insane clue dance inside his head, and suddenly the puzzle seemed to shape up to something recognizable. The cat, the liver, the incident in the clinic. But why the fever, then? Away from his team, House had to make up a new debate on his current diagnosis. Negative tox-screen meant no opioid use, but the man had to have been immunosuppresed _somehow_.

He raised his eyes to Cuddy only to discover she had crossed her arms and was patiently waiting for his epiphany to take place. She must have recognized the fixed stare he knew he got whenever something clicked into place. The realization brought a fleeting smile to his lips, which was quickly replaced by a no-nonsense determination. He clicked his phone open.

"Ask the man just how often he's been to the vacation house that he allegedly hasn't been to," he instructed when Cameron picked up. "And find out if they hire someone to do the housekeeping when they're not there."

"Alright, what are you thinking?" Cuddy asked as soon as he hung up.

He flashed her a wolfish grin.

"You and me, a vacation house hours away from all civilization—"

"About the case!" she clarified. "There's special phone numbers for you to discuss your insane fantasies."

"Yesss, but some stuck-up administrator coded all hospital phones not to be able to call those special numbers!"

"Use your cell. You pin the bill on the hospital anyway," she deadpanned. "Now the case."

He beckoned her to the bathroom, where he leaned against a wall and waited for her to take in the sight.

"Cosy," she remarked dryly. Her eyes swept over the dusty bottles and open cabinets just as his had. "You think it's a parasite? Looks pretty clean to me." She turned the tap. "Water looks okay, too, but we'll take a sample back to the lab just in case."

"Ice-cold," he offered with a cryptic expression. "Told you I'd win the race."

"There _is_ no race," she sighed impatiently. She fought the urge to point out that not only was it _his_ patient, but she would not have come along in the first place if House had not been planning to take a three-day sabbatical using the poor man as a pretext. "What did you find in this bathroom?" she asked again in her best business tone.

"Nothing. Well," he amended, "nothing that I didn't find in the rest of the house. See the living room."

He walked to the bar in the living room and traced his index along the wooden surface. He then held up the finger for Cuddy to see.

"Dirt?" She arched her eyebrows. "Is your patient allergic?" House nodded. "That doesn't make sense. You told me the biggest problem is his liver, nothing about his lungs. And HDM allergy didn't make his go berserk in the clinic."

"No" he explained smugly, "the _cat_ did that."

Cuddy fixed him with a long stare.

"Toxoplasmosis," she finally said. "You're thinking toxoplasmosis."

"Cat, antisocial behaviour, liver problems. Perfect match."

"So are twenty other possible diseases! Toxoplasmosis only manifests so severely in rare cases and the patient would have to be immunosuppressed. Does your patient have AIDS? Did he receive a transplant?"

"No, and no." He was thoroughly enjoying exposing his theory one brilliant deduction at a time. "Any other ideas?"

"Yes, he _isn't_ immunosuppressed because he spiked a 102 _fever_! Forget it, you're wrong."

"Oh, I _love_ your Foreman impression. Do it again. Or better, do Cameron—ooh, now _there's_ an image."

"House!" She hated the way he always seemed to get to her, no matter how many arsenals of patience she unfolded against him. "Is there _any_ evidence to support this theory of yours, other than the fact that the man _might_ have a cat that _might_ carry toxoplasma?"

He held up the dust-stained finger.

"Some allergy meds act as immunosuppressants. The man wants to come here, knows the whole house is a time-bomb to his system so he stacks up on them. His sinuses are fine, but he leaves here with a parasite he contracted from his cat. Toxoplasmosis causes the rash, he comes to the clinic, but the infection makes him go all neurotic on you, then his liver starts to fail and he develops vision problems which we _wrongly_ assumed were caused by my whacking him with a cane." He assumed an offended air, and huffed. "Like I didn't know better than to cause my patients chorioetinitis."

Cuddy leaned against the doorframe, a frown of concentration etched on her face as she considered his theory.

"_Why_ on Earth would _anyone_ abuse an allergy treatment to the point of messing up his immune system just to pay a visit to the countryside?"

House's cell phone went off.

"Why don't we let Doctor Cameron answer that one," he smirked as he answered. "Yes? Oh, did he?" Covering the receiver, he addressed Cuddy. "His wife safely out of earshot, he admitted to having brought his secretary here quite a few times in the past six months. The woman who usually cleans the house is close to the Mrs., so he didn't call her. Pumped full of meds and enjoyed his dusty little love nest instead." He grinned knowingly. "Now he thinks he'll have to explain an STD."

Cuddy shook her head. She had a lot of faith in people in general, but sometime she could certainly see merits to House's cynicism.

"Luckily," he spoke on the phone again, "it's a different love bug he has to worry about. Test him for toxoplasmosis. Hey!" He interrupted Cameron as she began to protest. "Sorry, Cuddy got to pointlessly argue my diagnosis today, so I'm not having this discussion again. Just test him and figure out for yourselves how and why toxoplasmosis matches everything. Take him off current treatment before you blow up his pancreas and put him on sulfadiazine and pyrimethamine. Call me to tell me how he responds," he lastly instructed before clicking off the phone.

* * *


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: Thanks so much for reading this and for your wonderful feedback:)! **

**Oh! And sorry about the confusion regarding the number of stories of the patient's house: where I live, when we say single-story house, we don't count the ground floor. So it's basically got one floor above the ground floor. Hope that clears it up, thanks Alex for pointing it out! (note to self: do _not_ take job writing real estate adds!) **

**Road Trip**

**Chapter VII: Standstill **

Cameron clicked off the phone, a strangely confused expression on her face.

"It's not toxoplasmosis, no way would it manifest so violently," Chase started. "Where did he even come up with that?"

"Does it matter?" Foreman asked, rolling his eyes in mild annoyance. "You know House, he's worse than a pitbull on steroids when he latches on to a theory. He won't even listen to arguments till the tests come out negative on this one."

Chase mirrored his expression and shrugged.

"Let's treat him for toxoplasmosis then." The two men grabbed the files they'd been reviewing and headed for the door to the conference room. "You coming?" he looked back to Cameron, who still wore the same puzzled expression, frowning at the phone in her hand.

"He said Cuddy got to argue his diagnosis." She turned to them in confusion. "He was talking to her when I called."

"What's so unusual about that?" Chase shrugged again. "He probably called her to boast. Ask for a raise. Or the porn channel, whatever, it's House."

Cameron shook her head.

"He didn't put me on hold. He was talking to her _in person_. There."

Foreman's eyebrow's shot upwards.

"At the secluded countryside vacation house?"

Chase exhaled between O-shaped lips.

"That's new," he said with a grin.

"It's new, alright," Foreman agreed, nodding with the same surprised smirk.

Cameron's perplexed expression was somewhere between there-is-no-Santa-Clause and walked-in-on-your-parents-doing-it.

* * *

_About an hour later, somewhere on the road…_

"Uh-oh. Do you feel that _odd_ tremor in the engine?" He pursed his lips in fake puzzlement. "What could it mean?"

Cuddy arched an eyebrow.

"Forget it, you're not getting out of tomorrow's lecture if I have to _push_ this car back to Princeton Plainsboro."

He took his eyes off the road just long enough to give her an exaggeratedly enthusiastic glance.

"I do love a woman of physical prowess."

Before she could reply, the engine whirred loudly and the car seemed to stumble along for another few feet before coming to a shaky stop. Cuddy froze for a brief second, staring in bafflement at the no-longer-moving highway marks. Then she turned a warning glare towards House.

"Very funny. Now start the car and drive or you're fired."

Much to her unhappiness, he returned an equally surprised expression. After a short silence, he gave a short, appreciative nod.

"I didn't actually do this. But you have to admit, the timing was pretty damn good."

* * *

He turned the keys in the contact, once, twice, and nothing happened. Patiently, he tried another couple of times before turning his gaze back to her. With a shrug, he crossed his arms, leaned back in the driver's seat and casually waved a hand towards her door.

"Better go out and push. Wouldn't want to miss the lecture."

Cuddy kicked him out of the seat and tried the keys herself just to make sure. Although the engine whined sadly and refused to start, she still was not entirely convinced.

"If you're doing this on purpose, I'm doubling your clinic duty until the end of the year," she announced, digging in her purse for the cell phone.

"That would indeed be scary if I wasn't genuinely innocent," House replied with a mock shudder. "Who are you calling?"

"Someone to come and pick us up. Wilson."

"It's almost seven o'clock, and we're still hours away. And Tuesday is Wilson's Hitchcock movie night. Think he's just going to give that up for an ten-hour round trip to get _us_?" he opined. "Well, unless _you_ give him a reason to—"

"Alright," she lifted a hand to cut him off, clicking the phone shut with the other. "What do you suggest, then?"

He seemed to consider another quip, but abandoned it at the last second.

"I saw a sign for a hotel a few miles back. Should be pretty close. You can call your car service to come and fix this baby, and we can wait at the hotel until they arrive."

Cuddy nodded.

"Open the hood and see if there's anything obviously wrong with the engine while I make the call." A few minutes later, as she got off the phone, she gave him a questioning look. "Well? Why did it stop?"

From above the open hood, House bit his lower lip, fixing her with a blank stare.

"Hmm. I think it's lupus," he deadpanned. "I'll tell Foreman to get a blood test to confirm." He shrugged in obvious amusement at the expression of disappointment on her face. "Sorry. Can't get a diagnosis without my three musketeers and a lot of expensive hospital equipment."

"Well, we better get this going to the hotel at least. That's where I called the car assistance people. Plus, I'd rather not wait out here in the cold—_and_," she knowingly warned, "any leery comment about body heat will cost you two clinic hours!"

He appeared to consider the pros and cons and finally decided one sexual quip was not worth two hours of listening to ridiculous complaints on things that went in or came out of various orifices.

* * *


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: This took a long while to arrive...thank you for staying with the story all this time! Again, rest assured, it is going to be finished, though the timing of it is entirely up to my lot of whimsical muses. **

**Chapter 8: Phantasms and Fantasies **

The evening was rapidly going downhill for Cuddy. Standing in the dim parking lot of the roadside motel, she shivered slightly in the chilly wind and wrapped her arms around herself to stave off the cold. She fixed the car service employee with a near-desperate look.

"Sorry, but we can't fix your car here. We'll take it to our nearest shop and have the guys there work on it."

She had heard him repeat that phrase in various ways for the past five minutes, but she still refused to believe that her car would not be fixed on the spot. When the man's half-bored, half-exasperated expression finally made her admit defeat, she turned to House with a gloomy expression.

"I'll go check the occupancy," he informed her, hobbling towards the entrance.

Cuddy sighed and turned to the car worker once more.

"I need to be at the hospital by tomorrow morning," she patiently explained. "Is there _any_ way the car can be ready in time for me to do that? I'll cover any extra charge," she added, mentally thinking up a new balance sheet for business expenses.

"We can get you a temporary replacement for a small fee," the man said. "Not before tomorrow, though. Boys at the garage don't work nights." Noticing her fierce stare, he hurried to add. "I'll have them bring it by before seven."

She nodded in resignation, thanked him and covered the car repair fee. As she pocketed the receipt, making a mental note not to lose it, she noticed House head back towards her, his obscure grin visible even in the dim evening light. Cuddy felt a headache coming on: anything that brought _that_ expression to his face could not be good news.

* * *

"What do you _mean_ you don't have two available rooms?" The no-nonsense administrator tone should have had the receptionist crawling under the front desk. "You can't possibly be booked full!"

"No, Ma'am. What I mean is, we don't have two available _singles_."

"Fine, we'll get two doubles, then!"

The front desk worker swallowed hard.

"That's, er, against our policy. We, ehm, can't give doubles to individuals. You know, just in case a couple wants to, eh, check in."

Her eyes were practically begging, and the receptionist seemed to hesitate. Then his eyes caught House's, and the doctor waved a bill behind Cuddy's back. The young employee faced her with renewed determination.

"I'm sorry, Ma'am, that's our policy," he repeated.

Cuddy gave him a look of disbelief. Switching tactics, she sighed and fixed him with the persuasive gaze that had earned the hospital many a donor, most of them male.

"How about a compromise? A single and a double? I'm sure you can make an exception, for one night." She smiled sweetly, and subtly deposited a bill on the desk. "Please?"

While the receptionist wavered, House's eyes widened in indignation. Quickly, he extracted another bill from his wallet, arching his eyebrows at the young man in an expression that obviously said the math was on his side.

Five tension-filled minutes later, an exhausted and exasperated Cuddy gave up and dejectedly accepted the key for their double-bed room. House followed her to the old, creaky elevator.

"You and I need to have a discussion about the immorality of bribes," he commented, straight-faced.

* * *

"So how are we going to sleep?"

For a moment, the apparently considerate question surprised Cuddy. She surveyed the small, sparsely furnished room with a quick glance and shrugged with as much ease as she could muster.

"Eh…I guess the bed is big enough for two persons. You know better than to misbehave, so there's no reason to—"

"What? Did you honestly think I was offering to sleep on the _floor_?" He appeared shocked by the idea. "Honestly, I'm a _cripple_! We get the special seats on buses, and you would have me sleep on the cold, damp wood?"

Cuddy shook her head. She should have known.

"Why did you ask, then?"

"Well, did _you_ bring the decent, long-sleeved, totally turn-off pyjamas that would motivate me to 'behave'?" Watching her freeze, he smirked and nodded to the bed. "I'll sleep in my undies if you do."

She gave him a wry look from beneath frowned eyebrows.

"Dream on."

"Ooh, isn't that the name of this motel?" he asked innocently. "Oh no wait, it's just "Dream". Or was it, "Dream Nights"? Night of your—"

"Do you _want_ to sleep in the car?"

In response, he plopped down on the bed, placing the cane against the nightstand and lying down with a long, satisfied sigh. Arms beneath his head, he cracked his eyes just enough to give her a once-over and smirked.

"You can always sleep in your inappropriate office outfit. Oh, wait!" he gasped dramatically. "Don't you have to introduce my lecture at eleven tomorrow? That's alright, I'm sure the conference attendees won't mind the creased and wrinkled look on _this_ low-cut shirt."

* * *

_That night…_

"Soo…think I should pop open that box of condoms?"

Cuddy just pulled viciously on the blanket, leaving him half-uncovered. House smirked.

"Or we could—"

"Ain't happening, House. Get over it."

He chewed on his lower lip, eyes staring at the ceiling. The room was dark, though some moonlight filtered through the dirty curtains. The two of them lay in bed, straight and still, a respectable distance between their barely-clothed bodies, and House was just having too much fun.

He kept quiet for about a minute, just long enough for her to think he'd given up, and then…

"Chocolate, or peach?"

A stifled groan was her only reply. He grinned—watching Cuddy try to be an adult about it entertained him to no end.

"Hypothetically speaking, of course. I know better than to misbehave. I'm too scared you'd eat me afterwards."

She still didn't say anything, probably counting on her silence finally getting him to quit. But he knew he was getting to her, he could practically feel the annoyance radiating off her body—along with a good amount of body heat which, all jokes aside, was going to make it damn hard for him to sleep, anyway.

"Know any good horror stories?"

Still silence.

"You know, I heard that motels—"

"Go. To sleep!" Cuddy finally growled from the other side of the bed.

"I can't. My leg hurts."

He could virtually _hear_ Cuddy's biting comeback shrivel and die as a wave of sympathy and guilt hit her, and all her annoyance deflated with a sharp, regretful exhalation…

"Oh for crying out loud, Cuddy, you're so easy to guilt trip, it's almost not fun anymore!"

House shook his head, feeling a little irritated himself. He'd played the leg card and mocked her guilt for fun, but once the words were out, he was surprised to find them actually strike a chord. Inside _himself_. He sighed, now properly annoyed.

"When are you going to tell me to go to hell and stop giving you crap for something you know was the right decision to make?"

"I'm not having this conversation," came her slow, firm reply. She kept her back to him.

"Why not? Because you're distracted by being in the same bed with me? Because _I'm_ distracted by being in the same b—"

"Because I won't argue with you right now. I'm sorry your leg hurts," she said in a low tone, turning on her back and staring up at the ceiling.

"My leg hurts all the time. And you _argue_ all the time, about my methods, about my patients, about my team, my Vicodin use—so why not now, why not about your deep-seated need to beat yourself up? Tell me, Cuddy, how do you draw the line between what your guilt lets you argue with me, and what it makes you let me get away with?"

"Stop it, House." In her voice was a clear, cold warning he chose to ignore.

"Because you're afraid you might actually be rid of that ridiculous guilt? That guilt that you love so much, you take it to bed with you every evening. You don't feel bad because you care, you feel bad because it gives you an excuse to not be happy, a pretext to not even try—"

In a sudden move, she sat up and started to get out of bed, but House reached out a hand and caught her wrist; he had meant to tug just hard enough to keep her in place, but she hadn't gathered enough momentum and his tug yanked her swiftly backwards, causing her to land almost on top of him. She tried a clumsy half-roll that only got them more tangled, until one of her elbows rested on his ribcage and their faces were only inches away.

It took a second for her to catch her breath, and it caught in her throat as she became aware of their closeness. For a short moment, they were both silent, still, panting, torn between putting up barriers and tearing them down. Then at the same time, they both became aware that House's hand was still gripping her wrist tightly, almost pulling it towards him, and Cuddy's eyes suddenly narrowed in anger.

"Damn you, House. If this is all a game to make me angry so you can play out your little fantasies…"

He let go faster than he would have a burning panhandle.

His gaze was angry too, for a second. Then suddenly it lightened up, and she felt a silent laughter vibrating in his ribcage.

"That does sound like me, doesn't it?" Then he made a show of arching his eyebrows and staring appreciatively down her neckline, where her chest nearly touched his. It was there he saw the quiver of her own dry snicker, and when he raised his eyes, she was shaking her head.

"You're a jerk," she said, but the anger was gone. She met his eyes, and suddenly they were just House and Cuddy again, locked in the same uneven, complicated dance. It was deliciously and regretfully comfortable.

* * *

The antagonism was gone, but Cuddy kept her position for a moment longer than needed. House kept quiet, acknowledging it. Then, he let a smirk crawl to the corner of his lips.

"_My_ fantasies? Who's on top, Cuddles?"

"I am," she replied evenly, "and you better remember that."

Then she rolled over to her side, stood up and walked to the window, forcing the tension to seep out, until she could feel her shoulders relax and her breath become even once more. She didn't need to look towards House to know he was watching her from the corner of his eye. The argument—if that's what it had been—was over, but she couldn't, didn't want to be that close to him again. It might have been over on the outside, but her mind was still in turmoil, and something inside her still felt sore.

She didn't want to make him leave the bed, either—if he would even offer—not with his leg. (How much of what he'd said about her guilt was true?) She suddenly wished she'd just let him take off in Wilson's car by himself. Why had she even climbed in the passenger seat in the first place? (Had it been the same guilt?) It had been so exciting, going to the patient's house, looking for a diagnosis. Of course House had figured it out. (What else was he right about?)

She crossed her arms and bit her lower lip, leaning her forehead against the window. She wasn't mad at him. She wasn't mad at all, at anyone. Just uneasy. It was unfair, he said things out loud that were obvious to him and didn't care about their impact on others. Cuddy knew that he did it, she should've been immune to it. Apparently not. She swallowed hard. Her legs still felt heavy from the long drive to the house.

"Come to bed. I'll behave."

His words echoed strangely in the silent room. Cuddy stayed still for another moment. He'd opened his mouth to start coaxing again, when she walked away from the window and sat down on the bed. It was easier to let go once your head hit the pillow and the long day caught up with you.

"Good night, House."

He closed his eyes and cursed himself for falling for the oldest trick in the book. Sleepovers, dark rooms, the sudden urge to talk and say things that can't be said in the daylight.

At least they both knew that what was said would never be brought up in the morning.

* * *

**A/N: Hope you enjoyed reading this chapter as much as I enjoyed writing it:) and thanks again for sticking with this story!**

**Myosotis**


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: Better late than never, right? As always, thank you for staying with this story:). **

**You might notice that the first few lines are the same as the prologue; that's because the timeline is catching up to the beginning of this story. **

**Chapter 9: The Morning After**

_Now…_

Cuddy rolled over on her right side with a distinctly ominous feeling. Her feet tangled slightly in the warm, wrinkled sheets. She kicked out lazily, wondering why the sensation of a stranger weight on the other half of the bed brought such an odd mixture of unease and excitement to her. It was certainly not what she usually experienced the morning after. In fact, she recalled apprehensively, as she brushed the tousled hair out of her eyes to clear her field of vision, there _had_ been one other time—

"Ohh, I _missed_ this scalding glare first thing in the morning."

She groaned inwardly as her colleague and subordinate, Dr. Gregory House, flashed his trademark smug grin from the other half of the bed.

Memories from the previous night rushed back, and it was all there in her eyes for one second, before she shook her head to push them away, honouring an unstated agreement between them. House didn't seem to notice her flicker of apprehension before she regained composure for good. He stared at her from across the bed.

"Soo…" he batted his eyelashes as fast as he could, "was I any good?"

So they were back to that. Cuddy felt a small smile form as she comfortably slipped back into their old routine.

"Almost six hours in the same room with you and not a single wisecrack? It was _fantastic_."

"I can go for more than six hours on my good days," he shared with a naughty wink that made Cuddy roll her eyes. "Closing in on fifteen!"

"Be still, my heart," she retorted dryly. "If only I could get you to do work for half that long."

He propped his body up on the left elbow and let his eyes slowly wander over her with an overly appreciative hiss.

"Show up like this in an exam room and I'll take _all_ the clinic hours myself."

"Don't push it, House."

She flashed another glare as she slid out of bed, yanking the sheet to wrap it around her body.

"Aww, shucks," he brought both knees together in feigned embarrassment, "you strip me of my clothes first, now my dignity…is nothing enough for you, woman!"

She rolled her eyes and walked to the window to pull the curtains. The view was desolate at best: a shabby hotel back-yard with some used cars scattered throughout.

"I don't see any auto-service car," she frowned. "It's almost seven, they should be here by now."

"I say go flash that young man at the reception desk. Judging by the looks he was giving you last night, he'll be glad to service you. Auto, manually, whichever way—"

"House—"

"Fix the car, I mean, of course! Christ, what did you _think_!" He shook his head as he slid his legs over the edge of the bed. "Besides, if I couldn't have the hot underage stalker, you can't have _him_. I'll get a restraining order."

With one last look of exasperation, she picked her clothes off the chair and went towards the bathroom.

"I'm taking the shower first," she announced, and House feigned a loud gasp.

"Shower?! You mean water _doesn't_ melt you?"

Since he got no reaction out of her other than an eyeroll, he continued:

"Can I join you?"

One hand on the bathroom doorknob, Cuddy looked over her shoulder and narrowed her eyes at him.

"Try, and you'll end up in the opening scene of one of those prime time criminal dramas."

His next reply was cut off by the sound of the door sliding shut. House stared at it for a moment, wearing a mischievous grin, then proceeded to get out of bed.

Though he would never admit it, he had spent some time the previous night pondering what had transpired between them (and if he was going to be honest, there had been the occasional regretful thought of what had, sadly, _not_ transpired between them.) But it was morning now, and last night was behind them, and he was not about to about _that_ can of worms. And by the looks of it, neither was she. Thankfully.

Then all that was left for him to do was milk their car-breaking, overnight-motel incident to the last drop. To think that Cuddy had actually _insisted_ on driving with him to the man's vacation house. House stifled a malicious chuckle: he would never let her live it down.

* * *

When Cuddy came out of the bathroom, House shook his head at the striking change in appearance. Gone were the tousled hair and the bleary eyes, as well as the (he let out a regretful sigh) scanty two-piece lingerie she had been forced to sleep in. Instead, she was wearing the office outfit from the day before, and a determined expression in her eyes.

"The car's here," he decided to inform her before she called in the hospital helicopter just to make sure he made the damned conference. "And they'll have Wilson's car ready by tomorrow. Meanwhile he can use the Royce," he indicated with an ironic nod towards the window.

"God…" Cuddy groaned at the sight of the rundown car bearing the name of the auto-service company. "Well, Wilson will never lend you his car again, that's for sure."

"Ah," House waved a dismissive hand, "he won't even notice. His mind's too caught up on other things."

"Too caught up to notice his _car_ is gone?" she asked with a sceptical arching of her eyebrow.

"Well, it _will_ be once I tell him I spent the night with you in an off-the-road love motel…"

* * *


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: ****I've been horrible in updating, replying, anything story-related lately. I think my muses went on strike, but our respective lawyer teams are working through it ;)! Hence, there we have it: the last chapter! **

**Thank you, everyone, for staying with this story and for sending me your feedback. **

_**Previously...**_

_"Luckily, it's a different love bug he has to worry about. Test him for toxoplasmosis. Hey! Sorry, Cuddy got to pointlessly argue my diagnosis today, so I'm not having this discussion again. Just test him and figure out for yourselves how and why toxoplasmosis matches everything."_

_***_

_"Uh-oh. Do you feel that odd tremor in the engine?"_

***

_"I saw a sign for a hotel a few miles back. Should be pretty close. You can call your car service to come and fix this baby, and we can wait at the hotel until they arrive."_

***

"_Sorry, but we can't fix your car here. We'll take it to our nearest shop and have the guys there work on it."_

_"We can get you a temporary replacement for a small fee...I'll have them bring it by before seven."_

__

_"I'll go check the occupancy." _

***

"The car's here. And they'll have Wilson's car ready by tomorrow. Meanwhile he can use the Royce."

"God…Well, Wilson will never lend you his car again, that's for sure."

"Ah, he won't even notice. His mind's too caught up on other things."

"Too caught up to notice his car is gone?"

"Well, it will be once I tell him I spent the night with you in an off-the-road love motel…"

**Chapter 10: Aftermath**

Some three hours later, a noisy, environmentally unsafe car pulled into one of the best parking spaces of PPTH, and two doctors stepped out, looking quite dishevelled. They seemed to start a squabble on their way to the hospital entrance.

"Alright, House, you've got…" Cuddy checked the watch on her wrist in a tired gesture, "…twenty-two minutes to get ready for your lecture."

"Thanks, I think I'm skipping class today."

"Not if you want to keep your job, you're not," she replied with the calm of someone who surely held the upper hand.

"I have to check on my patient!"

She rolled her eyes. It had been less than twenty minutes since Cameron had called to say the patient had tested positive for toxoplasmosis and was responding well to treatment.

"You can check on him in the next twenty-one minutes."

"Slave driver," he muttered. "Is this how you treat _all_ your men on the morning after? No wonder you don't get a lot of second dates."

They had entered the main lobby and Cuddy was just about to reply when she was cut off by a half-relieved, half-annoyed exclamation.

"Finally! I had to get a cab home and back here this morning!" Wilson made a beeline for them, an anxious expression on his face. "You were conspicuously evasive on the phone, House. Just what did you do to my car?"

"Your car's fine, Wilson, you'll get it back tomorrow."

"Wh-what? _Tomorrow_! What happened?" Eyes wide, he looked from House to Cuddy in confusion. "Where's the car?"

"It broke down—" Cuddy started apologetically, and was not all reassured by Wilson's shocked expression.

"_Broke down_? But… I'd just had it fixed two months ago…" His bafflement turned to irritation, as he turned to his friend. "That's it, House, you're not driving my car again. Just _where_ did you take it? What did you do to it?"

"I didn't do anything," House replied calmly. "It broke down, we spent the night at a motel, auto-service will bring the car back to you tomorrow morning. Hospital pays for all the repairs, of course," he added as an afterthought.

Wilson stared, agape, for a brief moment. As the information settled, he snapped his mouth shut, swallowed dry and shook his head in disbelief.

"You spent the night at a _motel_?"

House flashed Cuddy a smug grin. 'Told you', he mouthed silently.

"Don't worry," he said to her out loud, "I'll make sure to use the next…eighteen-and-a-half minutes in the best possible way."

* * *

"Did Cuddy really go with you to the man's house?"

"If the rumour mill says so, who am I to argue?"

Cameron rolled her eyes at his evasiveness. She opened her mouth to add something else, wavered between wanting to know and not wanting to intrude, decided she was being snoopy and promptly snapped her mouth shut with a frustrated sigh.

Having watched the thoughts and emotions roll across her face, House smirked knowingly.

* * *

"Did you really spend the night at a motel?"

"Yeah. The supply closets on this floor were always booked."

Chase had the decency to look flustered. House just smirked.

* * *

"I _know_ that you know that I know what you're going to ask, and you _think_ that because you _know _I know it'll make it less satisfying for me to hear you say _exactly _what I knew you would."

Foreman just stared at him, his lips pursed in slight dissatisfaction. Then he opened his mouth, changed his mind, closed it, and turned to walk away.

Behind him, House grinned smugly. He loved it when things unfolded as he had foreseen them.

* * *

"So…"

House continued to focus intently on his gameboy, though the corners of his lips drew slightly upward at Wilson's poorly disguised curiosity.

"How…was the trip?" the oncologist finally formulated his question.

"What you're really asking," House told him, "is how was Cuddy. Which means you don't know, so she hasn't slept with you. It also means you're curious, so you're hoping she _will_—"

"You're insane," Wilson declared with a roll of his eyes. "And you're dodging the question, which means nothing actually happened between the two of you."

"I'm a gentleman, I don't kiss and tell," House deadpanned.

"Yeah."

A loud buzz from the gameboy signalled 'game over'.

"What I don't understand," Wilson resumed over the ensuing silence, "is why Cuddy isn't denying your not-so-subtle insinuations. It's obvious nothing happened—"

The door to his office suddenly opened.

"Dr. Wilson, I need your consult on—" Cuddy stopped as she took in the second person in the room and the expressions of the two men. She rolled her eyes as she intuited the topic of their conversation. "There's a patient I need you to see," she resumed calmly. "I sent her down for an MRI, but you can look over her file until the test is done."

"Uh, sure," he nodded quickly, "I'll…be there in a few minutes."

Cuddy glanced from him to House and back again, before nodding curtly.

"Right. Thank you." She swivelled on her heels and left the room. Two seconds later, she marched back in. "Dr. House, may I have a word with you?"

"I think the supply closet on this floor is occupied, but I know a large cubicle on the third..."

If looks could kill… Tactfully, Wilson chose to excuse himself from his own office, willing to wait outside until his friend got chewed out by the furious Dean of Medicine. No longer caring about the privacy of their discussion, Cuddy did not even wait for Wilson to close the door before crossing her arms and giving House a no-nonsense glare.

"Stop telling people we slept together," she demanded.

He idly played with one of the trinkets on top of the oncologist's desk.

"I'm not telling them anything," he shrugged. "They just assume. People always assume, it's a flaw in our genetic code."

"Then say it's not true!"

"That's not true," he deadpanned.

Sensing the none-too-subtle double entendre, Cuddy sighed in exasperation.

"House. Grow up!" she said icily, turning to leave the room. Almost as an afterthought, she looked back at his amused expression. "And stop spreading insane rumours or I'll tell everyone who thinks we slept together that you carry that big cane around to _overcompensate_. You know…" She wiggled her small finger with a sweet, malicious smile.

It was only after she left Wilson's office that her shoulders shook with silent laughter. Back inside, House let out a low chuckle.

Sometimes, he had to admit the unforeseen did have its merits.

**-The End-**

* * *


End file.
